


Bang bang, I hit the ground

by bauble



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 15:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13011006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: AU written for Inception Reverse Bang, featuring the incredible art ofMarourin.Eames is a famous artist, Arthur is a hitman. Their worlds collide.





	Bang bang, I hit the ground

Eames is bored.

Surrounded by a throng of thralls, worshippers, devotees eager to prostrate themselves at the altar of his 'creative genius' or whatever the hell they see in his art, all Eames can think about is why the gorgeous man in the corner hasn't glanced his way once. That's not boredom, Eames supposes. He's intrigued, irritated, a little frustrated—he can't believe that he's failing to attract a visitor's notice at his own exhibition.

"Smile, Eames, smile," Yusuf hisses. He puts his arm round Eames' shoulders and poses them both for yet another photo. "Babbitz is here."

"Babbitz can take this hideous Rolex and shove it up his arse," Eames says, jingling the heavy watch Yusuf forced him to put on at the start of the night.

"Yes, well, he might be into that," Yusuf says, smile unwavering as more flashes go off. 

"I told you to tell him no gifts—the only payment I want is in dollars or pounds Sterling."

"I did tell him. He just doesn't listen to anything except for the voices in his head."

"How much longer do I have to wear this thing?"

"Until Babbitz leaves. Oh, and speaking of which, he wants to talk to you about touring the building tomorrow."

"I don't need a tour. I already have keys and the paint has been shipped in—"

"He wants a ceremony to present the lobby wall to you, and then have another ceremony after you've painted the mural. He thinks it'll make for good advertising material to have the before and after photos."

"Fuck him. I don't want to be a part of his idiotic—"

"There are still cameras on us," Yusuf interrupts, affable expression belying his sharp tone. "The man is paying you millions for what will probably amount to two weeks' work, not to mention sponsoring this entire exhibition. You will appear in his advertising and you will bloody smile for it."

The crowd of photographers finally disperses, wandering off to document the canapés or the plants or whatever else there is to take pictures of. Yusuf says something about talking to someone--Eames isn't paying attention--and walks off. 

Eames searches for the man he saw earlier, the unimpressed man with the dark hair and the slim-cut suit. Eames finds him standing in front of the largest painting in the exhibition, a massive black canvas with yellow paint splattered and streaked across the surface. Critics have already begun lauding its simplicity, the way it evokes a constellation in the sky.

In reality, the painting came into being by accident. Eames had been receiving a blowjob from an intern (assistant? apprentice? He can never bloody keep track of what Yusuf wants him to call them now that they're supposed to be paid) when he'd lost his balance and knocked over several cans of paint. Trying to chase the paint back into the cans had been a fruitless endeavor, and so 'Starry Night Sky' was born.

"This piece always brings to my mind precisely how small and insignificant we humans are in the scale of the universe," Eames murmurs, playing up his accent as he sidles up to the man.

He expects an impressed nod, perhaps a pretentious return volley, or at the very least a glance over and start of recognition. What he receives, however, is a disdainful snort. "I highly doubt there's anything of this world that could shrink your self-importance in a meaningful fashion."

Eames blinks, taken aback by the man's words as well as the unexpected depth of his voice. "I beg your pardon."

"This is bullshit," the man says, American accent underscoring his matter-of-fact tone. "You might as well have jerked off onto a canvas and called it 'Big Bang: the origins of the universe.'" 

Eames draws his shoulders back, no longer amused. "I suppose there are some people who don't understand—"

"You're not going to try to argue that just because I don't like your piece means that I don't 'get' art, are you?"

"I believe you're the one categorically claiming that what I make isn't—"

"Not all your work is bullshit. The show you did in Berlin." The man turns to face Eames. Up close, he is even more breathtakingly beautiful—thick hair slicked back severely, expression cool and unfazed. "I saw the blood in it. The violence. You showed something real about war that no civilian could ever come up with."

"You—" Eames drinks the man's figure in, imagines what his naked body might look like underneath the sleek lines of his clothing. Deceptively lean, Eames thinks, but made up of pure muscle and scars. "You're in the military."

"Ex." The man notices Eames' scrutiny and doesn't seem bothered by it—seems amused, in fact. 

"I'd tell you my rank and unit, but I doubt British titles would mean much to an American," Eames says. "Suffice it to say that I specialized in detecting and disabling landmines."

"Bomb-chaser, huh? I guess I should have known you'd be a thrill-seeker."

"And what were you?" Eames asks, taking a step closer. "Not a technician, or a medic. Some kind of support work?"

The man seems even more amused, hint of a curve in his pink bow lips. "I worked alone."

"Sniper," Eames guesses, and is rewarded with the faintest widening of the man's eyes. "A shadow. Inspiring terror in your wake. And what do you do now?"

"Me? I'm a ghost."

"Even ghosts have names." Eames trails a finger along the man's sleeve, down to his elegant cufflinks. "What's yours?"

The man regards Eames thoughtfully for a moment. Then he rotates his hand and catches Eames' wrist in a grip that's strong—nearly painful. "Let's go with Arthur, Mr. Eames."

Eames feels his cock twitch at the contact. He doesn't pull away, even as Arthur's fingers tighten. "The show in Berlin was five years ago. How long have you been watching me?"

"Long enough to know that you're wasting your talent on booze and drugs and sex with morons." Arthur drops Eames' wrist, as if disgusted. "You can take the easy paycheck and spend it on shit to snort up your nose, but don't kid yourself that this crap means anything."

Eames cradles his arm to his chest, unable to formulate a properly scathing reply. It's not as if Arthur is wrong. In fact, a commission to paint a mural in what will become a boutique hotel is what brought Eames to New York—and the patron, a hedge-fund arsehole by the name of Babbitz—is the one sponsoring this very show. This is what Eames has been reduced to: decorating hotel lobbies. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Arthur takes Eames by the jaw, touch brazen and shocking. "You can do better than this," he says, thumb tracing the seam of Eames' mouth. Eames' lips part before he can stop himself and Arthur's thumb presses in, forcefully, before withdrawing. "Goodbye, Mr. Eames."

Eames watches Arthur go, stunned and aroused and angry.

* * * * *

Eames takes two of the most attractive gallery visitors back to his hotel room. They fawn over him with pretty, blank eyes, and moan with unnecessary volume as he fucks them.

After he's done, he kicks them out and shifts restlessly in bed, hating that every last detail of Arthur's face appears to have been seared into his mind's eye. The only thing stopping his cock from hardening again is the fact that he's come twice already—and both times while fantasizing it was Arthur's arse he was plowing.

After an hour of staring at the feeble light sneaking in through the curtains, rolling onto his side in too-hot sheets, and aimlessly imagining what Arthur on his knees might look like, Eames gives up on sleep and dresses.

He leaves the hotel in sunglasses—nevermind that it's nearly midnight—and takes a cab to the Babbitz's building. If he's going to be awake and miserable about it, he might as well use the insomnia to fuel his work and ruin Babbitz's before and after photo-shoot plan in the process.

The place is dark and empty, no security beyond some flimsy door locks. The lobby itself is a towering, cavernous space with nothing in it besides Eames' paint and scaffolding equipment. 

Despite Eames' assurances to Babbitz and Yusuf, he has neither plans nor vision for the blank wall he's supposed to be painting. He's never done a mural before, nor ever had a particular desire to. He'd simply assumed that when the time (and money) came, inspiration would strike.

Eames studies the smooth, featureless wall and hears a noise behind him. That's the last conscious thought he manages as something heavy strikes the back of his head and everything goes dark.

* * * * *

Eames' head feels heavy, stuffed with wet wool. His chin drags against his chest as he tries to raise his head up and open his eyes.

He's still in Babbitz's building, facing that blank wall. He's been seated on a wooden chair which scratches at the bare skin of arse, his thighs. That's when he realizes he's no longer wearing any clothing—stripped of everything, including the Rolex. 

It occurs to him that this could be some sort of mugging, though that wouldn't explain why his upper body is completely bound in thin rope. His hands are tied behind his back, arms held to his sides with elegant knots. Whoever did this knew what exactly what they were doing.

His legs are curiously unbound. He tests his bare feet against the floor and determines that he could stand and possibly run. He's about to when a leather-gloved hand descends on his shoulder.

"I wouldn't advise fleeing," Arthur says. "You never know what you might run into."

"Such as a bullet?" Eames twists to look at Arthur, some of the grogginess dissipating—but not quickly enough.

Arthur walks round to stand in front of Eames. "You shouldn't be here."

"I'm here to work. I have keys to the bloody building—"

"I'm here to work, too." Arthur eyes trawl up and down Eames' naked body; despite his compromised position, Eames feels his cock begin to stir. 

"Don't tell me you work for Babbitz."

"I know you've been drugged, but you're definitely smarter than that." Arthur skims a finger along the lines of Eames' collarbones, raising gooseflesh as he does.

"You were lying in wait for—not me." Eames watches Arthur's impassive face warily as Arthur continues to chart a course down his chest. "Someone you knew would be here tomorrow. It was only scheduled to be me, Babbitz, and the photographer. No one gives a shit about some local photographer—which means you're after Babbitz."

Arthur traces the outline of Eames' left pectoral, flicks against the nipple delicately. "There we are."

Eames swallows as his nipple hardens under Arthur's attention, his cock not too far behind. "If you want the Rolex, my wallet, whatever money's in it—you can have it. I won't tell anyone I saw you."

"I don't want your Rolex."

"Then what—what do you want?" Fear and arousal mix together in the adrenaline pumping through Eames. 

He could sweep Arthur to the ground with his legs, kick him and run. They're almost of a height, Eames broader while Arthur slightly taller, but something tells Eames that the fighting prowess he's allowed to atrophy in the seven years since he's left the military will hardly be enough. Not to mention the fact that Arthur is probably armed while Eames is entirely naked.

"You know the answer to that question." With one controlled push, Arthur sends Eames' chair back on its hind legs. Eames can't weight-shift quickly enough to regain balance and lands flat on his back, legs spread in the air.

"There it is," Arthur murmurs as he unzips his trousers and pulls his half-hard dick out. From Eames' view on the floor, it looks to be large and growing larger.

Arthur tugs Eames by the ankle onto the floor, where a tarp has been laid out on the ground. It hardly provides any cushioning for the cement floor underneath, but it does speak to the level of forethought Arthur must have engaged in while Eames was unconscious.

"Are you going to kill me?" Eames asks, allowing his legs to splay wider, Arthur's gaze pulled immediately by the motion.

"I probably should, shouldn't I?" Arthur gives his cock a few leisurely strokes before pulling out a condom and rolling it on. Eames watches, salivating at the sight despite the chills Arthur's words send down his spine.

"I don't give a fuck what you do," Eames says as Arthur pushes his legs apart and kneels between them. "I won't say a word."

Arthur lifts Eames' cock, semi-erect against his thigh. "This makes you hard."

"You make me hard," Eames replies, which is true. The stroke of leather against his cock is sweet, terrifying—Arthur could exercise his total control at any instant, in any number of brutal ways.

Arthur sets Eames' cock aside and examines his balls, more scientific than sexual. He then moves on to Eames' hole, rubbing the rim down thoroughly with lubricant.

This is the moment when Eames should catch Arthur's neck between his knees and snap it. This is when he should pull both legs back and kick in Arthur's nose with his heels. Arthur is distracted, vulnerable, horny. This is it.

Eames spreads his legs wider and imagines what Arthur's dick would feel like down his throat, choking him. "I could suck you."

"Tempting, but I don't trust you not to bite off my dick." Arthur drizzles the last bit of lube onto his condom-clad cock and takes Eames by the back of his knees. "This will do."

The first breach of Arthur's cock is agony; Eames hasn't had anything larger than a finger up his arse in years, decades, even. Arthur doesn't bother to go slowly or allow Eames to adjust, pushing inwards relentlessly. Eames feels the sting of tears under his eyelids as Arthur bottoms out with a satisfied exhale.

It hurts when Arthur pulls back, rubs raw against Eames' rim even with lube. It hurts more when Arthur shoves in again, Eames' body nowhere near prepared for a second assault.

Arthur's cock punches the breath from Eames' lungs with every thrust, grinds the rope against Eames' wrists, makes Eames' skin burn against the tarp-covered floor. And yet through it all, there's a tiny, dark ball of pleasure. Eames is still impossibly, miraculously hard, cock brushing against Arthur's waistcoat and jacket with every thrust. 

The thickness of Arthur's cock hurts and creates a feeling of fullness that's staggeringly satisfying, sets nerves alight that Eames has never felt before. There's a strange want every time Arthur rocks out which is eased every time he pushes back in.

Arthur isn't looking at Eames' face, is instead staring at Eames' rope-wrapped chest. The part of Eames that's always loved to be observed thrills at the attention. Eames flexes and twists until his muscles stand out in greater relief, preens at the way Arthur's breathing grows ragged in response.

Then Arthur stops.

Eames doesn't realize he was moving his hips to meet the thrusts until Arthur goes absolutely still and leans back.

"You're leaking onto my suit," Arthur says, pressing one fingertip against the slit of Eames' cock and pulling away, a silvery strand of precome gleaming in the air. "If you come before I do, you're going to make a mess."

"You can suck me off and swallow," Eames suggests hoarsely, shifting upwards to offer his cock for a taste. "No mess at all, then." 

"I'm not interested in that. But maybe..." Arthur smears the precome along Eames' lower lip. "A more creative use of your mouth might be in order."

Arthur begins to jerk Eames off, one hand round the shaft and the other massaging the balls. It's an expert handjob, Arthur's manual dexterity and strength wringing an orgasm from Eames' cock practically before his mind registers it happening.

Eames swallows a gasp as his hips buck up, Arthur's hands catching all his come. It slicks the palms of Arthur's leather gloves, which Arthur offers up to Eames' mouth.

Eames doesn't break eye contact as he licks Arthur's palms, sucks the come from Arthur's fingers. It smears across his cheeks, his nose, his eyebrows—and before he's finished, he can feel Arthur's hips begin to move.

Arthur lowers his hands to rest on Eames' chest, thumbing and twisting Eames' nipples as he thrusts. Eames allows his mouth to fall open, small whimpers issuing forth as Arthur fucks him. Now that he's climaxed, almost all the muscles in his lower body have relaxed. The pain that had been so overwhelming before has been replaced with pleasure that makes Eames' eyes roll back in his head.

"Aren't you full of surprises," Arthur says when Eames' thighs tighten against Arthur's sides, toes curling. 

It still aches, a little, a bright edge to the electric pleasure thrumming through Eames' body. Eames doesn't think he can come again but he doesn't care. All he wants is for Arthur to keep fucking him.

Arthur picks up speed, rhythm growing erratic. Eames hums encouragingly, hazily, eager to see Arthur come.

Arthur gives Eames one last, body-shaking thrust and pulls out. He rips off the condom and finishes himself off, ejaculate spurting across Eames' chest and nose and mouth. It's warm and salty and faintly bitter on Eames' tongue. He catches as much as he can. He wants more.

Arthur stands up and tucks himself back into his trousers, chest heaving. "Should I kill you?"

Eames stretches along the ground, feeling sore and debauched and more alive than he can remember being in years. "I don't care who you are or what you came here to do. I'm no threat to you—I think you know that."

"Hm." Arthur runs his fingers through Eames' hair. "Keep a secret and I'll let you keep your life."

Eames twists up into a sitting position and presses his lips to Arthur's mouth. "Done." 

Arthur's mouth is slack at first, startled. Eames drives in with his tongue, heedlessly, until Arthur pushes back with as just much force. They kiss a while, a battle of tongues and teeth and mouths, until Eames bites down hard enough to draw blood.

Arthur pulls back, licks the crimson from his lips, and smiles.

  


* * * * *

The show in New York closes a success. Eames' artwork fetches outlandish prices and sells out. He also returns home earlier than expected, due to the untimely death of Babbitz via what the coroner deemed to be natural causes.

With his newfound resources and freedom, Eames hermits himself away in his studio, working feverishly on a new painting series. Yusuf stops by in the midst of Eames' creative process and backs away quickly, says he's going to put a show together in an adults-only venue.

Eames comes out of his frenzy three months later, surrounded by triptychs and diptychs of various sizes, all featuring the same subject.

The show opens to great fanfare, critics reviewing it with a mixture of fascination, horror, and titillation overlaid with moralizing blather about its 'near-pornographic' content. Eames refuses to take down the most controversial pieces—namely, those featuring a larger-than-life cock ejaculating—and won't answer questions about whether it's modeled on his own anatomy.

On the closing night of the show, Eames wanders the room aimlessly, scanning the throngs of visitors for the one face he wants to see. It's nearly ten and the gallery is beginning to shoo people out so the breakdown crew can come in and disassemble the exhibits.

Eames sighs and walks into the loo, disappointment weighing on him despite the stream of happy texts Yusuf sends about how many buyers have bid on the art. He takes a piss and washes his hands.

The bathroom door closes and locks.

Eames feels a tingle on the back of his neck as he dries his hands. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

"How could I miss a show titled, 'Big Bang: the origins of a universe?'" a familiar voice murmurs, a suit-clad body pressing up against Eames' back.

Eames takes a deep breath as a bolt of arousal shoots straight him. He looks in the mirror and meets Arthur's eyes. "Tell me: art or bullshit?"

"I think the more relevant question is: art or pornography?" Arthur reaches around to grab Eames's cock through his trousers, kneading as firmly as Eames remembers. "Imagine the surprise I felt at seeing my gloves, my waistcoat, my neck, and my prick—all covered in your semen."

"Covered in white paint," Eames corrects, sighing slightly as Arthur strokes him.

"Your semen covered up with white paint." Arthur bites Eames' earlobe. "I can smell it on your paintings."

Eames doesn't bother to deny it as Arthur continues to work his cock. Eames can feel the hard line of Arthur's answering erection and tilts his arse back towards it.

"Take off your shirt," Arthur says, stepping back. Eames immediately complies. "Take off your pants and underwear."

Eames pushes his trousers down to his ankles and steps out of them. He shivers, minutely, as he pushes down his pants as well. There's no way for Arthur not to see it, now.

"What's this?" Arthur kicks Eames' legs apart and presses Eames back down, effectively forcing Eames to bend at the waist and present his arse. Arthur tugs at the base of the butt plug, pulling it out.

Eames feels his hole contract in the chilly air, and watches Arthur's reflected expression. "I've been waiting for you."

"Have you worn this every night of the show?" At Eames' nod, Arthur touches the tender rim of Eames' hole. "This plug is a lot smaller than I am."

"I know." Eames widens his stand and takes hold of the counter. "I want you to fucking rip me apart all over again."

Arthur draws his cock out of his trousers and covers it with a condom. His motions are as deliberately paced as last time; he doesn't seem moved by the way Eames is spread and waiting for him. When he shoves in, Eames keens, the pain and pleasure so intense his knees nearly buckle. This is what he's been waiting for: Arthur splitting him open once more.

Arthur sets a punishing pace that rocks Eames forward until his hips hit the counter, forcing him to sprawl his arms and torso across a sink basin. Every thrust scrapes Eames' cock along the underside of the sink—rubbing against old piping and god knows what. Eames wants to keep his head up, to watch Arthur's face in the mirror but he can't—not with Arthur's cock driving deep inside, pleasure turning his entire body to jelly.

Eames' forehead falls against a faucet. His elbows are resting in puddles of water. Everything feels disgusting and raw and so good Eames can't do anything besides sob raggedly and take it.

"Don't stop," Eames rasps, feeling strung out. He's about to come, but he doesn't want any of the sensations to end.

Arthur yanks Eames' head back by the hair. "Do you think you can fit my entire cock down your throat?"

Eames blinks fuzzily at the mirror and licks his lips. "I can try."

Arthur backs off abruptly. Without Arthur to hold him up, Eames practically melts to the floor. He forces himself into a kneeling position, fingers wrapped round his own dick. 

Arthur grabs Eames' jaw and pries his mouth open, feeds him cock. Eames chokes twice as it fills his mouth, tears spilling as he struggles with his gag reflex, but Arthur doesn't stop. Eames' hands are slippery with precome, his own dick leaking almost continuously at this point.

"There we are," Arthur says, fingers almost gentle in Eames hair while his other hand holds Eames' neck so he can't pull off. "I knew you'd love taking it."

Eames comes like that, wanking himself furiously while saliva drips from the corners of his stretched-wide mouth and tears stream down his cheeks. When Arthur finally pulls his cock out, Eames gasps for breath, dizzy from oxygen deprivation and climax.

"Pay attention, I'm going to come in your mouth. Suck and lick, that's it, just the head." Arthur returns his cock to Eames' lips. "No, don't be greedy. The head is enough."

Eames suckles at Arthur's dick blissfully, licking at the underside, lapping up the precome at the slit. The taste is salty and familiar, a hundred times stronger now, right at the source. When Arthur begins to come, Eames presses forward despite Arthur's orders and buries his nose in Arthur's groin.

Eames swallows every drop of come from Arthur's cock and surges up for a kiss.

They make out lazily, Arthur's hands running along Eames' arse, his chest. "You made a mess on my clothing," Arthur says, gesturing at Eames' come on his trouser leg.

"I'll cover it in white paint and sell it for millions," Eames says.

"Done," Arthur replies, and bites Eames' lip, hard enough to bleed.

fin


End file.
